But the more I made new friends, the clearer it was to me that no one is ever really done making new friends, and very few people are averse to it. I used to assume that people ALREADY HAD THEIR FRIENDS, but that’s almost never the case. Even when people seem to be busy and social, they’re often very open to getting to know someone new.

Ask Polly: How do I make friends in my late 20s? // The Cut

The first AP over at NYMag’s The Cut, and she absolutely knocked it out. (via velocipedestrienne)

Guys, I know I already posted about today’s other Ask Polly column, but this one hits me in an entirely different place. This was me, two years ago, depressed and lonely and wondering how the fuck you make friends in New York City after college. And you know what? I did it. I did it well. For me the answer was: slowly, through work, through the internet (hi Tumblr beauties, you know who you are), and by being my real, weird self and finding people whose real, weird selves were on the same wavelength. And it’s so true - no one ever has *too many* friends. If they’re truly good friends, your life just opens up to make room. I love you, you fuckin’ weirdos.

We are all tempted to be shiny. There are so many shiny women out there. We are taught—and eventually we believe, in our hearts—that shininess is the surest route to love. But aiming for shiny is like living in the dark. “Though he gave me no sign that he was unhappy with our relationship,” you wrote, “I’d somehow missed the mark.” Though he told you nothing, YOU somehow fucked up. Though he was just a mirage, YOU were the sad rejected woman who didn’t please him enough. When you aim for shiny, you become nothing but a reflective surface. At your very best, at your peak shininess, he will only see his own reflection in you.

The most beautiful, loving, poetic souls in the world know that the most beautiful, lovable people in the world are the ones who are a little tarnished, a little scratched. If you want true love in your life, you will stop trying to be a brilliant silver chalice, and you’ll aim to be a misshapen pewter cup instead. Something ordinary, that you can pick up and feel and rub between your hands. Something regular and dented and scratched.

This tragic turn in your life gouged a big scratch across you. Own that scratch, the anger and the sadness there. Tell the truth about what it did to you. Because it was a gift, this premature exit from a fantasy world. It was your passage to a better life, lived among real people with heart and substance, where tarnished things are good enough, where you are good enough. You are good enough. You are good enough, right now. You are good enough. You are.



The literature: Yann Martel’s LIFE OF PI (requested by theinfinitespaceage)

The libation: Two cocktails do I present to you, dear reader, and you must choose the one which speaks to you of the existence of a higher, more refreshing power.

For the first, rim your vessel with sea salt. Fill about halfway with Sixpoint Bengali IPA, and top up with grapefruit juice. Stir gently and deliberately until the seemingly at-odds flavors meld together into a peaceful coexistence. You’ve left home. This is the Salty Tiger.

For the second, rim your vessel with kosher salt (the vessel is unchanged, the location is). Mix two parts grapefruit juice with one part blanco tequila with two parts tonic water. Add a dash of bitters and stir. You’re on dry land. This is the Salty Perro.

The same ingredients recombined can lead to such different outcomes, but we must each choose our own path. I leave it to you to decide.

Photo © Cook the Story and Serious Eats

Got a little cerebral.